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And he slammed on the brakes and started to turn hard left.
Then the station wagon with Clete’s guys slammed into our rear end, spinning us around.
And then we stopped moving, and I realized we were half on our side in a ditch.
And I grabbed the Thompson and opened the door and got out and fell in the ditch.
And then I was running through some kind of a field—a cornfield.
How did I get into that field?
Where did I think I was going?
And then I saw the truck and the bad guys—four, five, six of them—in black coveralls running to it.
And they saw me and shot at me.
With Schmeisser submachine guns.
And I shot back.
Somehow I remembered what that old sergeant had taught me at Fort Knox: Just tap the trigger to get off two or three rounds; if you squeeze the trigger, you won’t be able to hold your aim, and the muzzle will climb and you’ll be shooting at the clouds.
He made me practice until I could do it automatically.
So either I remembered, or it was a Pavlovian reflex or something.
I took down four of the bastards who were shooting at me.
I remember counting the shots, feeling the recoil, hearing the rounds go off.
One Two. One Two Three. One Two. One Two Three.
And I was about to take down another of the bastards but all of a sudden he stopped running and fell forward on his face. And so did the guy next to him.
And then I saw the Húsares, three of them, and realized they had taken down the last two.
Then the truck started to move and two of the Húsares ran to it and fired into the cab and the truck stopped.
One of the Húsares jumped on the running board and pulled the driver out onto the ground. He had to be dead; I could see into his skull.
Clete came running up, his .45 in his hand.
“No wonder I couldn’t find my goddamn Thompson!” he yelled at me.
“Mi Coronel,” another Húsare said, “your brother killed four of the Nazi bastards with the Thompson.”
Clete looked at me and said, “Does that truck run?”
Not “Good for you!” or “Good job!”
Just “Does that truck run?”
“Sí, Don Cletus,” the Húsare said.
“You stay here,” Clete then said, pointing at two of the Húsares. “Search the bodies, collect weapons. Antonio broke his arm. We have to get him and my German friend to the hospital.” He pointed to a third Húsare. “You get in the back of the truck. You can bring it back out here. Keep your eyes open. There may be more of the bastards out there.”
Then he turned to me.
